Tactical Error
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire. Sylar's proposal is pure logic. Claire's refusal is an exercise in common sense. Sort of.


Hey, Kring said it would be goofy. I'm just playing along.

**Title**: Tactical Error  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire  
**Summary**: Sylar's proposal is pure logic. Claire's refusal is an exercise in common sense. Sort of.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x25.  
**Word Count**: 1400  
**Notes**: For the You're So Spoiled! challenge at **sylar_claire**.

* * *

The first boy Claire liked peed on her favorite watercolor set.

The second boy Claire liked tried to rape her, accidentally murdered her, promptly stripped her of her uniform, and tossed her carcass into a river.

She was kinda hopeful about the next guy until he turned out to, you know. Be her uncle.

And, seriously, the last man she shared a hotel room with? Was sort of her father.

These are not things she can write cheers about. But she can deal. It's just bad luck. It'll get better.

"You look tense, Claire."

Or not.

She wants to say: _you have me strung up like a puppet, psycho_, but her mouth won't open. She suspects it's part of that whole puppeteer thing.

Sylar stares at her for a moment, contemplating.

"You've been very forgiving," he says randomly, head tilted. He flicks his fingers and she drops to the floor. "Have a seat."

Wary, Claire rises, rubbing her wrists. She eyes the door. She probably won't make it outside, but what the hell, she may at least try—

Invisible strings guide her to a chair.

She's surprised to find her mouth working again. "Look, if you're doing this to get back at my dad—" When the hell did she sit down? And what's with the wine? "Or at Angela—"

"This is about me."

Of course it's about him. Psychotic serial killers always make everything about them.

"And you."

Claire blinks.

Sylar's looming above her. His hand is resting against the back of her chair. There's wine on the table. They're alone. Obviously, he's gone crazy. Well. Crazier.

"What's going on?" she manages to ask. Her hands slip nervously to her knees.

He takes a seat next to her, entirely too close. "We're talking."

"Why?"

"That's what couples do."

Okay. She's having a nightmare. If she stays still long enough, maybe—

"Claire," he says, amused. His nails scrape against the tablecloth. "I had... an epiphany."

Claire's having one right now. Though hers is probably an aneurysm. "I don't care. Let me go."

He ignores her. "Because of you, I'll live forever."

Not if she gets her hands on that bottle. Not if she can crack it open. Not if she can stab—

"To thank you," he continues, gaze firmly holding hers, "I'll let you spend eternity with me."

—the fork could probably work, too. Yeah. She should definitely go with something metal this time. Wait.

"What?"

He looks strangely confident. "You're going to love me, Claire. Forever."

Her circulation cuts off. Anger replaces fear, and hundreds of words try to bubble up and spill over, but all that comes out is a harsh whisper: "No."

"I'm not asking."

She struggles against the chair. Invisible bonds tie her down. "Hate. The word you're looking for is hate, Sylar. I'm going to hate you forever."

Unconcerned, he raises an eyebrow. "You don't hate me. You fear me." He slides a glass of wine toward her. "I can fix that."

There's not enough alcohol in the world.

"I am, of course, willing to barter," he adds.

Her response is automatic. "What?"

"I'll spare your father—whichever one you like this week," he offers, sighing as though he's making a huge personal sacrifice.

Claire can't even process this. "You've tried to kill me," she growls. "I think, technically, you actually did kill me a few times—"

Sylar waves a dismissive hand. "I saved your life once."

His words evoke so much disgust she can barely see through the hatred. "You killed my _mother_."

"You won't remember that in fifty years," he reasons.

"Pretty sure I will."

He scoots his chair closer, eyes darkening. "Yes," he drawls. "I killed your mother, Claire. I stole your power. I terrorized your family. You'll forget in a century. Probably less."

She'll remember forever. If nothing else, just to spite him. "You've made my life a living hell, Sylar."

His expression changes instantly. "Living _is_ hell, Claire."

She can't take his stupid melodrama. "Are you serious? You hunted me for a year and now you don't want to _live_?"

"Not by myself."

A twinge of fear lances through her. Whatever. She can't think about the future. "Give it back, then. My ability."

He cracks a grin. Wraps an arm around her shoulder. Tells her casually: "I can see this will be fun."

Her wine glass slides closer on its own.

Claire stiffens. Peter. Nathan. One of them should be close, right? She just has to sit here a little longer, indulge his biannual ranting. She can do this. She's done it before. It always ends with him bleeding on the ground. Yeah. She'd like to see that again.

"I can shapeshift," he argues calmly. "I can be anyone you want. I can trick you into this, Claire. But I'll do it the right way."

She wonders, briefly, if she'll have to carry a paper cutter or grow really long nails and cut every prospective boyfriend; see if he heals. Of course, that might be counterproductive to having a healthy relationship, but—

"Can you morph into animals?" she asks before she can think it through.

He looks slightly disgusted. "I didn't know you were into that."

She's not blushing. He can't make her blush, okay.

"I meant—I—don't want you to turn into Mr. Muggles," she breathes. Because—she takes off her shirt in front of that dog. She gives him baths. She lets him sleep at the foot of her bed.

Sylar's lips twitch as though he can read her mind. "Good to know."

Her fingers slide to the tablecloth. Just a little longer. She can stall a little longer. "You're delusional."

Resigned, Sylar raises his glass. "I'm right."

She swallows hard, glances at him, looks away. "It's never going to happen. If you were literally the last man on earth—"

"One day," he tells her seriously, "I will be."

Claire pauses.

"Both my dads," she says finally, throat dry. "And my mom. All three of my brothers. My aunts and uncles. Grandparents." Her eyes harden as she turns to stare at him. "Anyone even remotely related to me, biologically or otherwise."

Sylar presses his glass to his lips. Says nothing.

"Anyone I've ever known," she continues, building momentum. "Anyone I'll come into contact with in the future." Her hands slide back to her lap. Her fingers curl against her jeans. "They're all off limits."

He gives her an almost imperceptible nod.

Claire exhales. There is power to this. She can use it. "You'll stay away from me for ten years. You'll stay away from my family forever."

His eyes narrow in anger. Or maybe it's admiration. "I'm spoiling you already, Claire."

This is going to be a mistake. She regrets it instantly. But she has to push her luck. "And no touching. Ever."

His smile is nine kinds of smug and she'd like to wipe it off his face. Preferably, with a shotgun. "No," he says. His fingers idly brush her shoulder.

Nausea overwhelms her. "Those are the rules. Take them or—"

"Relationships are about compromise," he interrupts.

When the hell did his face get so close to hers?

She's too freaked out to move. "Fine," she snaps. "Then what do you want, Sylar?"

All he says is: "You."

There's something seriously wrong with her. Must be conditioning. Because her chest just constricted. Not unpleasantly. Honestly, what is she, a freakin' masochist? Sure, she's thrown herself in front of trains and cut off her little toe, but this is... it's different. Isn't it?

It is. Yeah. She's not trying to punish herself by accepting this insanity. She's trying to protect everyone. That's her job. She plays defense.

"Okay," she says. It sounds totally unconvincing, but he perks up slightly anyway.

She expects a speech. Or some gloating at least. A celebratory scalping, perhaps.

But he only glances at her glass, raises his, and clinks them together with the sort of silent satisfaction that makes her squirm.

"To us," he murmurs.

The words seem frighteningly binding.

She has no choice. He makes it sound inevitable. Claire doesn't like either fact.

It's okay. She'll find a way out. She'll fix this. Later. For now, all she can do is glare at him and mumble:

"To... us."


End file.
